


Double Negatives

by coffeeinallcaps



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Bullying, Derek Has Issues, M/M, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Stiles Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/pseuds/coffeeinallcaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek and Laura run a pure food store and coffeehouse. There’s this boy Stiles who’s a regular customer. He’s infuriating, of course, but there’s something about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Negatives

“Fucking _finally_ ,” Derek muttered when the cowbell above the door announced Laura’s arrival almost half an hour too late. He chucked aside the basket of organic rye bread rolls he was arranging in the display. “Care to explain why you’re so incredibly, unacceptably—”

A gangly kid was standing in the doorway of the store, clutching a laptop bag to his chest as if it were a shield. His knuckles were white, his eyes wide and panicked. His mouth hung open.

“—not Laura,” Derek finished.

“I’m s-sorry,” the kid stammered. “For whatever I did. To make you angry. I can go. I just thought— I mean, I knew I was early but I checked the sign on the door and it said ‘open’, so I thought…”

Derek suppressed the urge to pick up his basket and bash it against his forehead repeatedly. Today was going to be one of _those_ days, then. “Misunderstanding,” he said. “I thought you were my ridiculously late employee.”

“Nope.” The kid let out a short, wavering laugh. “Just a ridiculously early customer, I guess.”

It was ten to eight, according to the cuckoo clock that hung above table one. Technically they weren’t open yet, but Derek decided to let it slide. He should’ve checked the sign. Erica had closed up yesterday, and she was always too busy chatting up hot people to do any of the things Derek had actually hired her to do. “What do you want?” he asked the kid in a clipped voice. He didn’t usually deal with customers, especially not this early. Laura always worked the first shift of the day; Derek was just here to open up, take inventory, and crawl back into bed.

The kid (on second glance, he wasn’t really a kid, maybe Erica’s age – a college freshman, then) palmed his buzz cut nervously and said, “Um, well, um, Laura usually… you guys have this breakfast to go thing? Um, it’s for. My dad.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the window. Derek followed it with raised eyebrows. The sheriff’s cruiser was parked on the curb, hazard lights flashing.

“Sheriff Stilinski’s breakfast,” Derek half-asked, half-stated. “Nonfat yogurt with one serving of crunched nuts, two wholegrain bread rolls with turkey breast and lettuce but no cheese, decaf coffee, hold the orange juice?”

“ _Yes_ ,” the not-a-kid said, his entire face relaxing with relief. (His face was impressively expressive, Derek noticed.) “That’s the one. Please don’t ever tell him the coffee is decaf though, he thinks it’s not. Oh and don’t tell him the yogurt is nonfat either, he probably wouldn’t like that. Also he doesn’t know there’s supposed to be cheese on those sandwiches, so he probably shouldn’t know about that either. Not that we have anything to worry about, I mean, it’s not like he’d ever come in here to get his own damn breakfast, always makes me go get it, but hey, whatever, at least he followed my advice and started coming here, I’m just glad he isn’t getting it at McDonald’s anymore, you know?”

He paused; whether for breath or to make room for an answer, Derek didn’t know. He kept his head down and finished preparing the bread rolls, turning his back on the boy to pour some of the coffee he’d brewed a few minutes ago into a carton cup. “Anything else?”

“Just a bag, thanks.”

Derek rolled his eyes and mumbled, “Kind of the definition of ‘to go’,” to himself. When he reached across the counter to hand over the breakfast, the boy’s jaw was set in a hard line, drawing the skin tighter across his facial bones and hollowing out his cheeks. It made him look a lot older. Derek swallowed. _God, Derek, do you have to be such a douchebag?_ his conscience reproached him in a voice that sounded like 25% Laura’s and 75% Erica’s.

“I’m not really a morning person,” he gritted out through his teeth. It was as close to an apology as he was going to get.

Golden brown eyes, deeper than they had any right to be, flickered up to meet his. “S’okay,” the boy said, taking the paper bag. “Thanks, have a nice day.”

Derek watched the boy’s narrow hips sway as he headed for the door. “You haven’t paid,” he said in a raised voice.

The boy halted, his hand (long, slender fingers, cuticles bitten) on the doorknob. “Uh, we have a tab, right? Laura…”

“Right.” Derek grabbed the clipboard from beside the till. “What name’s it under, Stilinski?”

The boy smiled. “Stiles,” he said, forearm veins rippling as he twisted open the door. His arms were skinny but hairy, muscled. Derek dropped his pen. If he forgot to add the price of one full breakfast to Stiles’ tab after he got back to his feet, well, it wasn’t Derek’sfault that his sister wasn’t around to point out his mistakes.

 

* * *

 

Laura came in at a quarter past eleven. Various versions of an infuriated speech were bobbing around Derek’s mind, but her eyes looked puffy and bloodshot and besides, a line was forming. He settled for handing her an apron and saying, “I’ll be in the back,” by way of greeting.

The kitchen was a comforting place, all cream-colored walls and calm chrome surfaces. Derek leaned against the door and breathed. He knew he should be glad to have this many customers this early, even if some of them had only stopped by to inquire how he and Laura were ‘holding up’ (in soft voices, as though he was supposed to break down in tears over something that happened to have happened several years ago on this date). Still, he much preferred the afternoons, when Erica waited tables while he foamed soy milk for cappuccinos and kept an eye on the cakes in the oven. Laura could call this a pure food store, breakfast bar and coffeehouse all she wanted; as far as Derek was concerned, they were running a pure food store and coffeehouse with a persistent morning habit of believing itself to be something it wasn’t.

A sudden pressure against his back made him startle. “Derek?”

Derek stepped away from the door. Laura came in with a tray of food. “Leftovers from breakfast,” she said, dumping it in Derek’s arms. “Throw out the turkey and the lettuce, but not anything else. And seeing as you’re still here anyway, you might as well stock the fridge under the coffee machine with milk for this afternoon, it’s empty. Erica must’ve forgotten to restock it yesterday.”

It was her tone of voice and the fact that she was telling him things he didn’t need to be told that made him ask, “Where were you this morning?”

Laura met his eyes. “I stopped by the graveyard, Derek,” she said tersely. A strand of hair had fallen out of her ponytail, was swaying softly in front of her ear. Derek wanted to reach out and smooth it back. Instead he said, “Don’t be late tomorrow,” and started putting away the breakfast leftovers. They were out of carrot cake, he remembered, so he got the batter from the fridge and set one of the ovens to pre-heat.

Normally he would be getting up again around this time, pulling on his running shoes, but his own shift started at 12:30 PM. There was no time left to sleep or work out. He settled for a double espresso and went out back with the plate of sliced turkey breast. The calico cat that had been roaming the premises for a few weeks now trotted up to him with a loud mew. Derek petted her as she ate. The cat didn’t seem to mind, purring loudly and pushing her warm little body up into his hand.

 

* * *

 

“Two soy milk cappuccinos with caramel drizzle for table four,” Erica told Derek. She put down her tray and leaned on the counter with both elbows, watching him steam the milk.

“Write it down,” Derek reminded her.

“I already did.”

“Did you?”

Rolling her eyes, Erica said, “ _Yes_ , I did. C’mon, these people are in a hurry.”

“In that case, go get me two cups.”

Erica scanned the tables, flagrantly pretending not to have heard him over the sound of the milk frother. Derek growled under his breath and stepped backwards to grab the damn cups himself. He swirled the milk around in the can with one hand as he instructed the coffee machine to churn out two espressos with the other. “Are you paying attention?”

“To what?” Erica asked in a bored tone of voice.

“Erica.” Derek thumped the can on the counter a couple of times to break the bubbles in the foam. “You’ve got to learn how to make all these drinks eventually.”

Erica twirled a blond curl around her finger. “Why? I’ve got you,” she said sweetly and sneaked behind the counter, reaching for the box of chocolates next to the coffee machine.

Derek slapped her hand away. “Those are 90% organic cocoa. Steal from the cheap ones.”

“You pay me minimum wage. The least you can do is allow me to reap the health benefits from my pure organic natural biological whatever-the-fuck-else workplace,” Erica said. “Unless you want my epilepsy to return full-force?”

Derek was pretty sure dark chocolate couldn’t cure epilepsy, but he didn’t stop her from grabbing a handful this time. “And don’t swear,” he said, belatedly. Erica flashed her teeth at him and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. Derek spilled some of the caramel sauce he was drizzling onto the cappuccinos. “Erica!”

Thankfully the doorbell rang, saving him from further torture at the hands of his infuriating employee. Erica skipped away with her tray under her arm to annoy the newcomers. By exception, Derek brought the coffees to table four himself. Two elderly women – locals whose faces he semi-recognized somewhere in a dim corner of his mind – smiled frailly up at him as he put down their cups. “Derek, dear, how are you holding up?” one of them asked.

“Fine,” he said. “Erica will bring your bill.”

He hurried back to his place behind the counter, but the store was small enough for scraps of their conversation to reach him anyway. The usual words: _fire, tragedy, Laura, terrible, alone._ Derek had heard and read them so many times over the past few years that it had started to feel like, instead of about him, they were about some fictional version of Derek Hale; one who existed only in gossip and newspapers. Nonetheless he clanged the clean cups together as hard as he dared to while piling them up next to the coffee machine.

 

The next time he ventured a glance in the direction of table four, the boy from this morning was sitting there – the Sheriff’s kid, the one with the buzz cut and the profound eyes. Stiles. He was hunched over a laptop, sucking intently on one of the strings of his hoodie.

“Nonfat soy milk cappuccino with sugar-free hazelnut syrup, a decaf latte macchiato, and two slices of carrot cake for table two,” Erica rattled off, letting her tray clatter onto the counter. “What are you staring at?”

Derek ripped the notepad from her hands. “You didn’t write down the syrup. You have to. It costs fifty cents extra.”

“I was _going to_ ,” Erica said, offended. “What the hell does ‘macchiato’ mean anyway?”

“I said no swearing,” Derek hissed.

“Dude, ‘hell’ isn’t even a fucking swearword!”

“Erica, I’m not kidding, I’ll—”

She cut him off by grabbing his head and ruffling his hair.

“Erica!”

“You don’t scare me, Dere-bear,” she sing-songed, sauntering off again.

“I should fire you,” Derek muttered under his breath.

“Black coffee with caramel syrup and whipped cream for table four,” Erica told him when she came back to pick up the order for table two. “By the way, I know you totally love me, so you can stop pretending not to.”

“No I don’t, and we don’t use whipped cream. You know that, Erica. How many more times do I need to tell you not to let people order things we don’t have?”

“Yes you do, stop denying it, and it’s supposedly in the fridge under the till,” Erica said, unperturbed. “Apparently Laura is experimenting with… what was it… vegan whipped cream made from coconut milk. Stop looking at me like that! I know it sounds ridiculous. Believe me, I didn’t make it up.”

He jerked open the fridge. There was an unlabeled spray can on the door shelf. “Huh,” Derek said and glanced at table four again. Stiles was leaning back in his chair now, the tip of his tongue peeking out of his mouth with the string twirled around it. His shirt had ridden up high enough to show a line of fuzzy dark hair down the center of his stomach.

Derek swallowed. “Why are you still standing here?” he asked Erica sharply. “These drinks are getting cold.”

“You love me,” Erica said, carrying the loaded tray away.

Derek poured a cup of drip coffee and stirred caramel syrup through it. He topped it off with the whipped cream – which smelled pretty fucking delicious, even though he didn’t care much for coconut-flavored anything – and brought it to table four. “How did you know about this?” he asked brusquely as he set the cup down.

Stiles yanked his ear-buds out of his ears. “Hi,” he said. His eyes crinkled happily around the edges. “Thank you.”

“How did you know about this?” Derek repeated, pointing at the whipped cream.

Stiles looked at Derek’s finger, at the drink, and then back at Derek’s face. “The whipped cream?” He sounded unsure.

“Yes. It’s not on the menu.”

“Laura told me about it yesterday,” Stiles said with a frown. “I thought I’d just ask for it, try it out, did I do something wrong? Because—”

“Not at all,” Derek cut him off in a clipped voice and stalked away from the table.

Erica was seated atop the counter. “Get _off_ ,” Derek hissed as he slid back behind it. “I swear to God I will break every bone in your body if you don’t start listening to me now.”

“Whew. Someone is getting awfully cranky about some whipped cream,” Erica said. “Obviously I’m just a freshman with only half a Psychology course on my academic record so far, but I can’t help but wonder, might this severe overreaction have something to do with the five-year anniversary of your parents’ death? Hmm?”

Derek drove his fingernails into his palms. “It has something to do with me wanting to know what goes on in my store,” he said. “And Erica, if your fat ass breaks that display, your fat ass will also be the one paying for a new one.”

“I have a great ass and you know it,” Erica said, but she hopped off the countertop anyway. “Oh and by the way, last time I checked Laura’s name was on the papers as well. Also, vegan coconut milk whipped cream is a really pathetic thing to get upset about, Dere-bear, even by your standards.”

“I cannot even begin to tell you how much I regret the day that I hired you.”

“No you don’t,” Erica told him, leaning forward. Derek stepped back warily, but all she did was blow him a kiss. “No one else has enough backbone to handle you in all your hostile and traumatized, ostensibly narcissistic but secretly self-loathing glory.”

She had a point there, Derek had to admit.

 

He was slicing a fruitcake into small, even pieces when someone began to tap on the countertop behind him. This was a new thing; regulars knew to stay seated and wait for Erica to come around with the bill, and even people who visited the Hale Pure Food Store & Coffeehouse – Hale’s, in the local parlance – for the first time rarely approached the counter when Derek was working. It couldn’t be a to-go customer either. Derek would’ve heard the cling-clang of the doorbell as they entered. He always did.

The tapping didn’t stop. Someone cleared their throat. “What do you want,” Derek said over his shoulder, messing up the square of cake he’d been carving out so carefully. God _damn_ it.

“I’m sorry about before.”

He turned around with the knife in his hand. “What?”

Stiles was standing on the other side of the counter, the straps of his backpack slung over one shoulder. He was fidgeting with them. His eyes looked big, bigger than before, but Derek wasn’t sure whether that was because of the late-afternoon light or the vague look of confused guilt on the boy’s face. “I’m sorry I upset you,” Stiles said.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I…” The boy frowned. “Wait, so you were just doing that thing where you get all pissy with someone just for the sake of being pissy with someone, even though you’re not pissy with them at all but with something or someone else?”

“I’m not pissy,” Derek said automatically. “I don’t get pissy. I’m not sure ‘pissy’ is even a word.”

“You seemed pretty pissy, dude,” Stiles said. “But it’s okay. I forgive you. We all get like that sometimes. I think it’s called emotional contagion or something like that.”

“No it isn’t,” Derek couldn’t help but reply. “Emotional contagion is when you feel someone else’s emotions.”

“Is it?” Stiles frowned. “Hmm. I’ll need to look up the correct psychological term for… this, then.” He loosely waved a hand in Derek’s direction, as though aiming to find the correct psychological term for Derek in general. Ha. _You could write a PhD about that, kid_ , Derek didn’t say.

“What was that?” Stiles said.

Derek blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked like you were thinking a funny thought. You should share.”

“I don’t think funny thoughts.”

“Yes you do. I’m fairly sure you just did. Your mouth kind of twitched and your eyes did this thing. You can share, you know. I promise to laugh even if it isn’t funny.”

Derek stared him down.

The kid shifted from one foot onto the other. “All right, then. Anyway, we good? You’re not pissy with me? ’Cause I don’t think I would be able to handle that, you know. Call me crazy but I like it when people are not angry with me. Or sad, or disappointed, or whatever. I’m not very good with constructive criticism either, I mean I’ll _pretend_ to appreciate it and on some level I do, but fact remains that even just one negative comment will keep me up at night and I’ll be mulling it over for, like, a week or two at least.”

“Okay,” Derek said. He didn’t really know what else to say. Stiles looked at him expectantly with those large brown eyes and ran his tongue along his bottom lip, leaving it slightly shiny. Without meaning to, Derek wondered idly if the kid had ever given head, if he would enjoy it, being on his knees for someone. He looked like he would. He looked like he’d be eager and sloppy, blinking up occasionally for approval or praise—

Erica walked by with a dishtowel in her hand. Her curls bounced as she came to a halt. “What are you doing here?” she asked Stiles.

“Chatting,” Stiles said, face open and innocent.

Erica’s gaze flickered up to meet Derek’s. He shrugged one shoulder and returned to his fruitcake. “You’re supposed to leave him alone,” he could hear Erica hiss behind his back.

“What?” Stiles’ voice whispered in reply, sounding incredulous and a little offended. “I was just making conversation! Jeez, it’s not like there’s a _cave canem_ sign anywhere or something like that.”

Derek felt one corner of his mouth twitch upward.

 

* * *

 

Judging by the length of his tab, Stiles had been a regular customer at Hale’s for at least a few months but most likely longer. After taking a moment to congratulate himself on his excellent customer-avoiding skills, Derek started paying more attention. Stiles came in around eight to get his father’s breakfast; he came in again after three o’clock on all weekday afternoons except Monday and Thursday. He brought his laptop and a stack of textbooks. He ordered something different every time, although he did sit in the same spot in the corner whenever possible.

After three weeks of stealthily observing the boy from afar, Derek asked Erica, “How do you know table four?”

“Stiles?” Erica said without looking, which meant she was finally starting to grasp the logic behind the table numbering system, halle-fucking-lujah. “We were in the same class in high school.”

“So he’s in college as well.”

She shook her head. “No, they held him back when his mom died. Cancer, I think. Or maybe a car crash? I can’t remember. Anyway, he’s super smart but he wasn’t doing very well socially, so. Yeah. I guess he must be graduating this year.”

“Okay,” Derek said. He looked at where Stiles was seated, busily highlighting a page. His mouth hung open; the tip of his nose was almost touching the book.

Erica tilted her head and squinted. “Derek, is that… is that an _emotion_ skipping across your face? Oh, never mind, it’s gone again. Sorry, I thought I saw something. My mistake.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Make another soy cappuccino. If you mess up the foam layer again, I’ll make you down it in one go.”

“That’s employee abuse,” Erica wailed, but went to the machine anyway.

 

* * *

 

See, it wasn’t like Derek was feeling anythingfor Stiles, like Erica’d implied. That would be ridiculous. He didn’t even know the kid. He didn’t even _want_ to know the kid.

It was just that Stiles had long dark eyelashes and energetic arms and a distractingly beautiful mouth, and Derek couldn’t stop thinking about what those lips would look like stretched around his dick, what those wrists would look like when Derek gripped them hard enough to bruise, what those eyes would look like shining up at him from below.

 

* * *

 

“Derek, we ran out of turkey again,” Laura came bursting through the kitchen door. “That’s the second time this week. You should probably call the farm to up our weekly order.”

“I’m on it.” Derek scooped the last of the cookies into a basket and threw the baking tray into the sink. He checked to see if he’d turned off the oven; he had.

“Fuck me, what smells so good?” Laura asked, exaggeratedly sniffing the air like a dog. “Are those chocolate chip cookies?”

“The gluten-free ones, yeah.”

She leaned into his shoulder. “Gimme one.”

“They’re still hot,” Derek said, but he broke one in half anyway, handed her the biggest part.

“Tastes amazing,” Laura said around a mouthful of cookie. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“We were out of cookies,” Derek said. “Obviously.”

“You could’ve told me. I would’ve baked them after the morning rush was over.”

“Whatever.”

Laura wiped her fingers on her apron and watched as Derek scrubbed at the baking tray, a dark-haired blob in his peripheral field of view. “You’re not having trouble sleeping, are you?”

He snorted at the thought. “Just cutting down on hours.” He turned around to search for a dishtowel. Laura was staring at him, forehead creased. “Laura, seriously.”

“Sleep is important,” she said. “You need it.”

“Not twelve hours of it.”

“If that’s what you need, that’s what you need. Dr. Morell said—”

“Not anymore,” he interrupted her curtly, grabbing a towel off the kitchen island. “Anything else you wanted?”

Laura sighed. “Just remember to change the order. Oh, and I’m confiscating this. Asshole tax.” She grabbed the other half of the cookie off the countertop on her way into the store. Derek brushed the crumbs away and went out back. The plate of turkey breast was empty, but the cat was nowhere to be seen.

 

When everything had been prepared for the afternoon shift, Derek went upstairs to his apartment and changed into running gear. Laura seemed placated; she waved when he strode past the counter with his headphones on.

As usual, he cut his warming-up short, heading out of the town center and in the direction of the woods at a quick pace. He liked it better this way, liked the burn in his leg muscles and the occasional stab of pain in his side. It made him run faster. Besides, Derek was probably too well-trained for it to get him injured anyway. For a long time after the fire, this was all he’d really done – sleep, work out, sleep more, work out more. If his body had wanted to revolt it would’ve done so years ago.

When he was running Derek slid into a different headspace, one wherein all that mattered was the beat of his music and the matching drum of his feet against the concrete. It was because of this, he figured, that it took him so long to realize the figure in the distance which he was steadily approaching was Stiles. Of course, the damn kid didn’t own the patent on wearing plaid shirts in Beacon Hills, but something about the slouch of his shoulders and the tilt of his head and the way he walked was so distinctly _Stiles_ that Derek almost slowed down to contemplate it a little more. But he didn’t, and when he himself arrived at the edge of the woods he took a left turn so he wouldn’t have to follow the main road and overtake the kid.

 

* * *

 

Something strange happened:

Derek had slipped into the kitchen to check if all the ovens were off and the backdoor was locked. (They were; it was.) When he returned to the store, he almost stepped on a yellow marker cap. He halted and turned to table four, where Stiles was typing away as usual, head bobbing up and down a little. “This yours?”

Stiles didn’t look up but continued to bob his head, lips moving slightly. Derek noticed the white threads of ear-buds leading from Stiles’ laptop to his ears. Rolling his eyes, he raised his voice to say, “Hey. Stiles.”

No response.

Derek sighed and roughly tapped the kid on the shoulder.

The response was immediate: Stiles kind of convulsed, shrinking into himself as he flinched away from Derek’s hand. He glanced up sideways, anxiously, and for a split second he almost resembled that little monster from the _Lord of the Rings_ movies, all wide-eyed and frightened and pathetic-looking (which should have been funny but, somehow, wasn’t). Then, his face relaxed.

“Jesus,” Stiles said, pressing one hand flat against his chest. “You scared the shit out of me, big guy.” He let out a short laugh, but it trembled around the edges and Derek was still thinking about that expression. Though he couldn’t pinpoint it exactly, it made him feel queasy anyway. “You dropped this,” he muttered, picking up the marker cap and slamming it down on the table before walking away.

 

* * *

 

“What do you know about Sheriff Stilinski?” Derek asked Erica during close-up.

She pulled open the dishwasher and waved the steam away. “Why?” she asked, one eyebrow curving upwards. “You know him, right?”

“Not really, no. I only spoke to him a few times.” Derek remembered barely anything from those times, though. Mostly an inexplicable ringing in his ears and the phantom smell of smoke. “I mean, what kind of person is he? You’re the resident gossip queen, you know this kind of shit.”

Erica threw her hair back, visibly pleased. “Very true,” she said. “There’s not a lot of gossip going around about the Sheriff, though. Everyone loves him. Well, aside of these frat boys who keep getting into trouble, but, you know, that makes sense. He seems to be a tough love kinda guy. Smart and fair. Kind of badass. Quite few of my friends have crushes on him, actually. Not that he’s glanced at any girl twice since the death of his wife. I heard they were, like, really in love. Like _really_.”

Derek grimaced. “So you think he’s an all right guy?”

“Yeah, totally. He’s good people. By the looks of it anyway.”

“That really doesn’t say anything,” he murmured to himself, putting the clean cups away.

Erica made a frustrated noise. “Please, please, please tell me you’re not seriously comparing _Sheriff Stilinski_ to your psychotic one-night-stand chick who burned down your house with your family stuck inside it five years ago.”

“If this counter isn’t spotless within ten minutes I’m firing you,” Derek said, and went to check the ovens.

 

* * *

 

Derek was walking down the main road, cooling down after his run, when he found out. A bunch of teenagers – not too many, four or five maybe – were grouped together on the sidewalk; one of them caught sight of Derek and shouted something that made them all skitter apart and hurtle down an alley. One remained, slumped against the wall with a hand pressed to his cheek. Derek’s heart shot up into his throat.

“I almost didn’t recognize you without a plaid shirt on,” he said by way of greeting.

Stiles chuckled shakily. “Hi, Derek.”

Derek couldn’t remember ever officially introducing himself to Stiles. He didn’t bother asking the kid how he knew his name, though. Everyone in this town knew Derek’s name. “You okay?”

“Fine.” A drop of blood wrenched free from under Stiles’ hand, sliding down his wrist.

“Let me see that,” Derek said.

A cut ran across Stiles’ cheekbone. Further down, the skin around the edge of his jaw was red and raised. Derek went to touch it, but stepped back when Stiles jerked his head away. “You should get this treated.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’ll stop. It’ll be fine.”

Derek hesitated. The kid wasn’t his responsibility. Derek didn’t owe him anything. He had nothing to do with this. He could just walk away.

Except.

Except the kid wasn’t a kid. Derek had thought that he was – young, innocent, unspoiled – and had maybe allowed himself to kick on that a little bit, just a little bit, because Stiles was also legal and kind of hot in an awkward, unidentifiable way. But looking at him now, with blood dripping down his bruised cheek and his eyes dim and guarded, Derek realized Stiles wasn’t a kid. Probably hadn’t been in a very long time.

“Come,” he said with a single tug at the sleeve of Stiles’ hoodie, and started walking. He didn’t look over his shoulder to check if Stiles was following.

 

Back at the store, Derek set Stiles down at table two and went to get the first aid kit. (They’d used it exactly once, a couple of months ago, when Erica had decided to let her fingers get more intimately acquainted with the inside of a blender.) He dug up a wad of cotton wool and sprayed it with antiseptic.

As he dabbed at the wound, Derek could feel Stiles’ big brown eyes on him. “It’s not that deep,” he said gruffly. “Don’t they teach self-defense in those schools of yours anymore?”

“Did they ever?” Stiles countered.

Derek shrugged and lowered his hand. The cut hadn’t stopped bleeding yet, so he pressed the cotton wool to it again. Stiles winced.

“Oh, come on,” Derek said. “It’s not that bad.”

“Shut it, big guy. Last I checked it was my face that’s sliced open, not yours,” Stiles muttered.

Derek frowned. No one ever talked to him that way except Erica and, sporadically, Laura. Come to think of it, no one ever really exchanged more than a few sentences with him except Laura and Erica. He shook his head. “What did you do to make ’em hit you?” he asked.

Stiles averted his gaze. “I dunno. Various things. Be skinny. Refuse to fight back. Be the son of the town sheriff. Whatever, they’re just bored. They think I’m weird. Talk too much.”

“You do talk a lot,” Derek said. “You’re not that skinny, though.”

Stiles smiled wanly. He looked tired, dejected. For the first time, Derek had a brief fantasy of taking Stiles to the apartment upstairs, making him get comfortable on the couch and going down on _him_. Of the smell and taste of Stiles’ dick and the way his long fingers would twitch around Derek’s head or dig into his cheek or slide into his mouth. Maybe he would let Derek fuck him afterwards, head tipped back, legs spread wide, heels slipping helplessly against the base of Derek’s spine. Derek’s name wrenching itself from his curved throat as it all became too much, too much.

“You should fight back,” Derek said a little hoarsely. “Pathetic little shits. Just kick their teeth in. It’s not that hard. You should grow a backbone.”

“Wow,” Stiles said. “Have you always been this much of an asshole, or only since your parents died?”

Derek blinked a few times. “Have your friends always beaten you up, or only since your mother died?” he asked in a calm voice, and watched as a fine film of water settled across both those big, brown eyes.

“They’re not my friends,” Stiles said quietly. “Are you done?”

Derek checked the cut again. “It’s stopped bleeding.”

“Good.” Stiles pushed out of the chair.

Getting back to his feet as well, Derek said, “I still need to cover it.”

“I’ll do it when I get home.”

“That kind of defeats the purpose.” Derek rummaged around for a band-aid. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said reluctantly, cradling in his hands.

“You’re supposed to put it on the wound,” Derek said.

“Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious,” Stiles said. “I’ll do it when I have a mirror.”

“Jesus Christ, just let me do it.”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Out of principle,” Stiles said and crossed his arms.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Very mature. How fucking old are you anyway?”

“Nineteen.”

“You’re nineteen and you’re still in high school?”

“I got held back,” Stiles said tersely. “Can I go now?”

“Fine,” Derek said.

Stiles said, “ _Fine_.”

They glared at each other. Stiles groaned and slumped back into the chair. “Fine, whatever, you can do it.”

“Thank you.” Derek fished the band-aid out of Stiles’ palm. He had to lean in to make sure he didn’t put the adhesive layer directly onto the cut. Their faces were so close together that he could feel the burst of breath against his cheek as Stiles said, bitterly, “I bet that’s the first time you’ve ever said that.”

“What?”

“‘Thank you.’ I bet that’s the first time you’ve ever said ‘thank you’.”

Derek stared at the side of Stiles’ face, at the haphazard congregation of small birthmarks there, at the bruise that was blossoming. He blinked. He swallowed. He said, “The first time in a very long time, I guess.”

Their eyes locked. There were a few possibilities now—

a) Instead of letting his hand fall to his side, Derek swept his thumb lightly across Stiles’ hurt cheekbone and the bruise on his jaw. He allowed his fingers to linger on Stiles’ chin, index finger dangerously close to the corner of his lips. “You all right?” he asked.

Stiles breathed in. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Derek said, leaning closer. Their noses brushed together. He glanced up and when his gaze connected with Stiles’, he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to hold back.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Derek murmured, catching Stiles’ whispered “Okay,” on his lips when he surged forward. Stiles made a little noise and opened up further, allowing Derek in, their tongues meeting inside Stiles’ mouth. A hand came to rest on Derek’s neck, warm and a little clammy.

Derek pressed his open mouth against the side of Stiles’ throat. “Come upstairs with me,” he whispered, feeling Stiles’ pulse point throb under his tongue. Stiles shivered and nodded.

b) Derek crushed their mouths together. For one dizzying second, Stiles’ lips were warm and slack against his. Then, Derek felt a white-hot slap of pain against his cheek.

“How dare you,” Stiles said, voice tight with fury. “How dare you.”

What ended up happening was c) Stiles was the first to look away. “I’m sorry,” he said, softly. “That was— I shouldn’t have said that. It was out of line.”

“It’s fine,” Derek said. “I’d already noticed you’re the kind of person who’s perpetually out of line, so.”

Stiles snorted. “Insert something about ‘throwing’ and ‘stones’ here.”

Pulling a face, Derek asked, “Are you seriously quoting that ‘boys are stupid, throw rocks at them’ thing?”

“Oh my God,” Stiles said. “I’m quoting the Bible, you absolute moron.”

“I’m pretty sure the Bible says ‘let him who is without sin _cast_ the first stone’.”

“I’m pretty sure the Bible was written in ancient fucking Greek and that such a tiny little detail would depend on the translator.”

“Fair enough,” Derek said.

Stiles smiled wanly. “I should, uh, head home now, probably.”

“Yeah, of course.” Derek stood up. “Try to stay in one piece.”

“Whatever,” Stiles said. Derek watched him make his way to the door, a slight, almost unnoticeable limp in his step. Stiles hesitated. With his hand on the doorknob he turned back. “Hey, Derek?”

Derek said, “What?”

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, Derek left the store area at a quarter to eight and did not venture back there until the morning rush was over. He brought turkey to the stray cat and watched her eat. He returned to his apartment via the fire escape. For the first time in weeks he went back to bed like he used to do. Sleep refused to come. He jerked off in the shower, trying very hard not to think about Stiles. Toward the end, as his strokes turned rough and uneven, he gave up and thought about him anyway, about Stiles knelt down in front of him with his hands curved loosely around Derek’s ankles, his face lifted upwards in dark-eyed invitation. Derek came with a groan.

It was a Thursday, so he wasn’t expecting to see Stiles during his afternoon shift. Derek’s heart bucked and bolted in his chest when Stiles came in a little after four. The band-aid was still on his cheek.

“And so I said to her, I said— Derek, are you even listening to me?” Erica said, cocking her head to the side.

“What?”

“I was telling you this awesome— hey, Stiles!”

“Hey,” Stiles said, eyes flickering from Erica to Derek. Derek hastily started cleaning the coffee machine until Stiles quit lingering and moved on to his usual table in the corner.

Erica made a noise of disapproval. “You know, Derek, it really wouldn’t hurt the business if you acted a little friendlier towards our customers.”

“It would hurt me,” Derek said.

“God,” Erica said. “You’ve got issues.”

“Really? What gave ’em away?”

Erica punched him in the upper arm and wandered off with her notepad in hand. Thursday afternoons tended to be quiet; out of the ten tables, only three were occupied. Derek fiddled with the iPod and turned up the sound a little bit, rubbing at his biceps with his other hand.

“A double espresso and a hot chocolate with hazelnut and whipped cream for table four,” was the order Erica came back with.

Derek glanced at Stiles’ table. “What?” he said. “Stiles is—” _never here with other people_ , he was going to say, but for some reason he choked on those words. He settled for, “—on his own.”

“It’s what he ordered.”

“You must’ve heard wrong. Go back and ask him again.”

“I asked twice already. It’s what he ordered,” Erica repeated. “Maybe he’s thirsty, I don’t know. Just make the damn drinks, all right pretty boy?”

“Don’t talk to me like that. I’m your superior.”

Erica winked at him and sashayed away. Derek swallowed down an honest-to-god growl. When he was done making the order, Erica was on the other side of the room flirting with some blond jock, so Derek took the drinks to table four himself. “Expecting company?” he asked, placing the hot chocolate next to Stiles’ textbook.

Stiles glanced up through his ristretto-black eyelashes. “It’s for you.”

“What?”

“The espresso. I ordered it for you. That’s what you usually have, right?”

Derek frowned at the steaming cup on his tray. “What?” he repeated.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me,” Stiles said. “C’mon, sit down.”

Derek did, but only because he was too confused to do anything else. “Are you buying me a drink in my own store?”

Stiles pulled a face. “Jeez, you don’t have to sound so immensely grateful about it.”

Derek traced the rim of the cup with his index finger. He contemplated saying _thank you_ but instead he said, “Why?”

“Why what?”

With a sigh, Derek said, “Never mind.” He took a sip.

Stiles slammed his textbook shut and threaded his fingers together, resting his chin on them. “Seriously, Derek,” he said, his eyebrows drawn into a frown, “every time I think I have you all figured out you do something that makes me realize I really don’t understand you.”

Derek took another sip from his coffee.

“Most of the time you act like a huge asshole,” Stiles continued, “but then sometimes you don’t, for like, a second or two— and then suddenly you’re acting like a gigantic asshole again. You barely talk to _anyone_ but still everyone in town seems to kind of respect you in some weird way. And when I talk to you you look at me like you couldn’t care less but when you think I’m not looking you look at me like— like, I don’t know, the opposite of that, I guess. I don’t know. I just don’t get you.”

Derek wasn’t sure what to say to that. “What makes you think I’m acting?” he asked eventually.

Stiles frowned even deeper. “What?”

“You say I _act_ like an asshole,” Derek said. “Why not just say I _am_ an asshole.”

“Because you’re not,” Stiles said matter-of-factly, as though they were discussing something indisputable, like the current weather or the answer to three plus two.

Derek’s heart was racing. He snorted. “That’s cute, but I really think you don’t know me enough to be able to claim something like that.”

“Oh, really?” Stiles said. “So tell me about that stray cat you’ve been taking care of. That’s just another manifestation of your douchebaggery, then? What, you been feeding her poison or something? Just gaining her trust so you can abuse her afterwards?”

The tips of his ears burning, Derek said, “No, I— that’s different, all right.”

“It’s really not,” Stiles said. “The only difference is that you think no one’s watching.”

Derek didn’t reply. Stiles stared at him, confidently.

“Well, congratulations,” Derek said. He downed the rest of his espresso in one go and stood up. His blood, for some reason, was roaring in his ears. “Anything else you wanted?”

“Ask me out,” Stiles said.

He must’ve heard wrong. “What?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” Stiles said. “I know you want me.” His eyes were gleaming fiercely, but Derek could see the lines of uncertainty etched around Stiles’ mouth and eyebrows. He sat back down.

“What makes you think I’m gay?” he asked quietly, leaning in close.

Stiles’ throat worked as he swallowed. “Maybe not gay,” he allowed. “But I’ve— I know you’re attracted to me. I can tell.” He swallowed again but didn’t avert his gaze.

“And now you want me to ask you out,” Derek said.

Stiles finally looked away. “Yes.”

Derek observed him; the tight line of his jaw, the way his eye color seemed lighter when seen from this angle. Long, thin fingers twitching against the tabletop. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said.

Stiles’ eyes snapped back to meet his. “Why not?”

“Because.” Derek checked the store. The jock and his ginger girlfriend had left. Two tables were newly occupied, but Erica had provided one of them with drinks and cake already and was currently taking the order of the other one. No one, it seemed, was paying any attention whatsoever to the bizarre conversation he and Stiles were having in this corner. “It’s just not a good idea, okay.”

“Is it because you think you’re a jerk? Because I’m telling you, that’s bull—”

“No,” Derek cut in. “That’s not it. It’s just…” He looked at Stiles again, at his hands, his wrists, his mouth, the outline of his throat. Derek’s own mouth felt dry. “I’m not good for you.” Stiles began to roll his eyes, so he continued hastily, “The things I want to do to you, it’s— no. You shouldn’t want me.”

“That sounds vaguely worrisome,” Stiles said. “Like, _Criminal Minds_ levels of worrisome. You’re not talking about, like, creepy stuff, right? Bloodplay? Asphyxiation games? Dismemberment? Necrophilia? Because—”

“Jesus Christ,” Derek said. “What’s wrong with your mind, I’m talking about— actually, you know what, I don’t owe you any of this information.”

“But it’s about _me_ ,” Stiles whined. “I deserve to know.”

Derek cocked his head to the side. “Have you ever had sex?” he asked bluntly, partly because he wanted to know and partly because he wanted to see the blood rush to Stiles’ cheeks.

Stiles didn’t disappoint. “No,” he said, face growing red rapidly. “Not yet.”

“I shouldn’t be anyone’s first,” Derek said and got up for the second time. His heart rate, thankfully, had returned to something resembling its usual pace.

Stiles’ hand shot out and grabbed his forearm— not forcefully enough to stop Derek from going if he really wanted to, but forcefully enough to make him pause. “Ask me out,” Stiles demanded again, his cheeks still a little flushed.

Derek looked down at the long fingers circled around his wrist. “No,” he said.

“Fine,” Stiles said. “I’ll do it myself. Hey, Derek? How do you feel about movies?”

 

* * *

 

They went to see _Les Miserables_ , which Derek thought sounded like a pretty appropriate movie to be the scene of a first (only) date between someone like him and a boy who obviously had a few issues of his own. Somehow it wasn’t awkward at all. Stiles managed to comfortably uphold a stream of words all throughout the car ride, the line for the ticket booth, the advertisements, and the trailers. All Derek had to do was munch popcorn and nod or hum from time to time. He was starting to think this wasn’t such a disastrous idea after all. When the movie started and Stiles stopped talking, Derek kind of missed the sound of his voice.

 

“That was hands down the worst experience of my life,” Derek said as they filed out of the theater afterwards. “And that’s coming from someone who got his own parents killed.”

Stiles winced. “You said you liked movies!”

“Movies, yes. I don’t seem to recall you asking about _musicals_. Fucking hell.”

“It’s more of an opera, actually.”

“Same difference,” Derek said, holding open the door for Stiles. (He tried to do it grumpily, but that was kind of difficult, especially when Stiles ducked his head and blushed a little as he stepped outside.) “Either way it made me feel miserable for sure.”

Stiles laughed and turned to Derek as if to say something, but his face froze.

“What,” Derek said.

Somewhere behind him, he could hear a laugh and a voice saying, “Hey, look, there’s the faggot,” and then, louder, “Stilinski!”

“Nothing. We should go,” Stiles mumbled. He lowered his head again. The change in his body language was fascinating; he’d gone from relaxed and smiling to tight-jawed and lip-biting in a nanosecond. As his fascination faded, Derek felt only a raw and primal anger. Someone bumped into him from behind but he barely noticed it over the roar of white noise in his ears.

“Derek,” Stiles said. “Let’s go now.” His shoulders were drawn high and tight.

Someone stepped into Derek’s line of sight, a guy with brown hair shorn up at the back and a leather jacket not unlike the one Derek was wearing. The guy smirked and clapped one hand down on Stiles’ shoulder, hard. Stiles flinched noticeably but didn’t shake the hand off; he just kind of stopped moving entirely, his gaze fixated on the ground. The noise in Derek’s ears flared up and his field of vision burned red and then he was holding the guy – this fucking asshole – against the wall by his throat.

“Derek!”

Derek squeezed tighter, watching as the skin around his knuckles turned white. The guy tried to cough. His hands were scrambling at Derek’s arm, too panicked to get a proper grip. His eyes were swimming with fear. _Coward_ , Derek thought calmly. _You’re a fucking coward_.

“Derek,” Stiles said, again. Derek became aware of a persistent tugging at his jacket. He glanced to the side. Stiles was all pale, eyes large and worried. Behind him, a few feet away, a half-circle of people was forming. One woman stood with her hand slapped across her mouth like in a clichéd movie reaction shot.

Stiles said, “Let’s— let’s just go, okay? Let’s go, you don’t have to do this. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not.” Derek’s voice sounded too rough to his own ears. The bully’s whimpers were vibrating against his palm. Derek pressed down. Tears were starting to leak down the guy’s cheeks. Something about that made Derek feel good, made him feel warm inside, which in turn made him feel nauseous.

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles said. “Let him go, Jesus.”

“Is that Derek Hale?” Derek heard a whisper behind him. As the roar in his ears died down, he realized the street was silent aside of the bully’s choked sobs.

Stiles said, “Derek, please.”

Derek let go. The guy reached for his throat and started coughing. Behind them, the crowd breathed a collective sigh of relief.

“Next time you anger me,” Derek said quietly, “I’ll break into your house, shower your kitchen in gasoline and set it on fire. Do you understand?”

The guy nodded, still clutching his throat with both hands, still coughing, still crying. Stiles’ fingers threaded through Derek’s. Derek allowed himself to be led away. People backed away from them as fast as they could.

 

Back in the car it was painfully quiet even when Derek started the engine. Stiles hadn’t said a word since the _please_ that had snapped Derek out of his fury. He glanced to the side. Stiles was playing with a loose thread on the knee of his jeans.

 _Now you see_ , Derek wanted to say. _Now you see why I’m no good for you._

Stiles smoothed out the fabric of his jeans. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles repeated, looking out of the window. “For pressuring you into this and making you go see some stupid movie you didn’t even like with me and for getting you into that situation. I shouldn’t…” He bit the side of his thumb. “Never mind. Just, I’m sorry. Just drop me off at home and we’ll forget about it all.” The collar of his blue button-down, Derek noticed, contrasted with the creamy-pale skin of his throat. Derek wanted to reply, to say something, anything, but now that he’d noticed Stiles’ throat it was all he could think about.

Stiles glanced at him. “What?”

“You’re an idiot,” Derek said. “That fucking asshole should be the one who’s sorry.”

“I bet he is now.”

“He better be.”

Stiles smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Is he one of the guys at your school?” Derek asked.

Stiles nodded. “He and his twin brother. They’re the ones who decided—” He cut himself off again. “You know, seriously, whatever, they’re just sad people and I can’t wait until I’m done with high school and get the fuck out of there. It sucks and it’s stupid and you’re right, they’re assholes, but it makes me feel pathetic when I think about it for too long so just bring me home, okay?” His voice closed up a little on the last word. Derek nodded and drove off.

 

* * *

 

“I heard a thing,” Laura said. She was leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. She looked tired.

“Good for you,” Derek said. “Have you made the orange juice yet?”

Laura sighed. “Derek.”

“What?”

“Don’t be like that. You know what I’m trying to say to you.”

“Do I?” Derek checked the fridge. “We need more milk here.”

“You beat up a teenager, Derek,” Laura said. “People are talking about it. Asking me what’s going on with you.”

“So refer them to my therapist. Or better yet, tell ’em it’s none of their fucking business what goes on with me.” Derek scratched at his stubble. “Oh, and I barely beat him up. I just kind of pushed him against the wall. It was nothing, really.”

“You threatened him,” Laura said. “A teenager. A high school student.”

“A teenager who habitually gangs up on one of his classmates with all his little asshole friends, yeah. Hardly worth your sympathy.”

Laura threw her hands in the air and let out a noise halfway between a scream and a groan. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” she yelled, slapping her hands down on the countertop hard enough to make the glass plate in the display wobble in its frame. “Derek, I—”

The cowbell above the door cling-clanged.

“Good morning,” Laura gritted out through her teeth.

“I’ll be in the back,” Derek said, squeezing past her.

 

It was sunny outside. He sat on the lowest step of the fire escape stairs and petted the cat. She looked less emaciated these days; her fur was not as dull as before. Both her ears were torn and across her nose ran a slanted line, angry pink even though the wound had long healed. Derek touched it and wondered if it was easier to have scars that were visible. Probably it was.

The sound of footsteps echoing in the alley made him squint up against the sun. “This is private property,” he called out to the approaching figure.

“Whatever,” Stiles’ voice replied.

The cat skittered away. Derek’s heartbeat picked up.

“Did you give her a name yet?” Stiles asked, moving as if to sit down next to Derek. “Scoot over, Grumpy.”

Grumbling, Derek complied.

“Well?” Stiles pressed.

“Well what?”

“Did you give her a name yet?”

“What, the cat?”

“No, Derek, I’m talking about the fire escape.”

Derek suppressed a smile. “I’m not gonna name the damn cat.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause. It’s just a stupid stray cat.”

With a shrug, Stiles said, “So what? I named my car.”

Derek snorted. “You would.”

“Hey!” Stiles bumped their shoulders together. “Don’t be an asshole. I bet you named your, your coffee machine or whatever.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Your car, then.”

“Nope.”

Stiles groaned. “For serious? Would it kill you to bring a little joy into your life?”

 _Possibly._ Derek’s mouth tasted of ashes. “Does naming your possessions qualify as bringing joy into your life?” he asked. “Because in that case, I’ll pass.”

He couldn’t see Stiles’ face, but it probably had a passionate eye-roll going on. “You’re pretty impossible, you know that?”

“I do,” Derek said. “Laura tells me so every day.”

Stiles ducked his head and looked at Derek.

“What?” Derek said, squinting to read his facial expression. “I can’t see your face because of the sun.”

“You _would_ be the kind of person to complain about this weather.”

“I’m not—” Derek started to say, but Stiles moved forward abruptly, making him forget his train of thought.

“Can you see me now?” Stiles asked. He was so close that Derek could see the single pearl of sweat resting in the curve of his upper lip.

Derek said, “Aren’t you supposed to be in school or something?”

“Snow day.”

“And you call _me_ impossible?”

“That’s why we work,” Stiles said confidently, still hovering in Derek’s personal space. “Two negatives resolve to a positive.”

Derek tried to look away from Stiles’ upper lip. “Not in all languages.”

“They do in Standard English,” Stiles said, and closed the gap between their mouths.

Derek’s brain blanked out. For all the times he’d imagined this happening, nothing could have prepared him for the real deal— the reality of Stiles’ lips moving against his, the reality of two fingertips pressing cautiously down on Derek’s stubble, the reality of the tip of Stiles’ tongue searching for his, the reality of the shiver at the base of Derek’s spine as their tongues slid together. The kiss was soft but not hesitant, totally unlike Derek’s fantasies wherein their every move was overlain with frenzied urgency, and it felt so good that he either had to break away or give in to the urge to fist his hands into Stiles’ shirt, to jerk him closer, push him up against the wall, kiss him longer, deeper, harder.

He broke away.

Stiles was looking at him through half-closed eyes. “You’re good at that,” he said, softly. His mouth area was glistening.

Derek didn’t know what to say. Eventually, he cleared his throat and said, “Uh— but seriously, why aren’t you at school?”

Stiles looked amused. “We have P.E. the first two hours. I can’t join.”

“Why not?”

“Because my tragic lack of hand-eye coordination poses a direct threat to public safety.”

“Hilarious,” Derek deadpanned. “What’s the real reason?”

Stiles shrugged. “I got this bruise on my ribs. Makes it hard to run and breathe at the same time. It’s, like, pretty much gone, though.”

Derek swallowed around the scorching lump of anger in his throat. “Did—”

But he was cut off by Stiles pressing their lips together a second time. Stiles seemed a little more impatient now, his tongue insistent, one of his hands curling around Derek’s neck. The anger subsided, an equally hot burst of pleasure taking its place. Derek heard himself make a small sound bordering on a moan. Stiles, encouraged, climbed into his lap, all limbs and uncoordinated mouth movements. Derek grabbed him around the waist to steady him but pulled back from the kiss when their lower bodies ground together too roughly.

“Not here,” he grumbled. He could practically feel every single cell in his body ache in frustration and disagreement.

Stiles, now with one warm clammy hand on either side of Derek’s neck, said, “You got a place here, right?”

Derek took some time to let his eyes roam over Stiles’ face. His lips and cheeks were flushed red and he was breathing a little fast. The way Stiles looked now, Derek was pretty sure he could take him upstairs and do whatever he wanted – everything he wanted – with Stiles ( _to_ Stiles), and Stiles would want it too, like it too. He would pant and moan and flush an even darker shade of red, not just in his face but all over his naked body. The thought of it almost made Derek feel dizzy. “No,” he said, “I mean, yeah, yes, I do, I live here. Upstairs. But…”

Stiles sat back. His hands dropped into his lap. “But you don’t want it,” he said, voice flat.

 _I want it too much._ “No,” Derek said. He allowed himself to touch Stiles, to trace the outline of his kneecap through his jeans. “I shouldn’t want it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Stiles said. “I’m nineteen.”

“You’re in high school.”

“Only because they held me back, only because my mom died and those fuckers won’t leave me alone!” Stiles half-shouted at him. “Don’t make up excuses!”

“Okay, so how about this,” Derek said. “I shouldn’t want you because you’re young—no, Stiles, _listen to me_ —because you’re younger than me, and I’m… I’m fucked up. Hell, when I was your age I was even more fucked up than I am now.”

“ _Everyone_ is fucked up,” Stiles said impatiently. “It’s still a shitty excuse.”

Ignoring him, Derek said, “You shouldn’t lose your virginity to someone like me.”

Stiles’ blush, which had been dying down, revived. “Virginity is a social construct,” he said. “And besides, who’d you rather see me lose it to? Everyone in my own class hates me, so that leaves… let’s see… the closeted captain of our lacrosse team? Or… my Science teacher? Or one of those guys from the car dealer across the street?”

“Please don’t have sex with Mr. Winchester,” Derek said. “Either of ’em. Though I’m pretty sure they’re not even gay.”

“I’ve heard rumors,” Stiles said vaguely. “Anyway, do you see my point?”

Derek decided to play obtuse. “You’re desperate to lose your virginity and somehow I am the least unappetizing option?”

Stiles slapped his arm. “No, you moron,” he said. “My point is that your excuse doesn’t make sense. You may be all wah, wah, wallowing in angry manly self-pity, which is fine, I mean, that’s what I like to do too from time to time, except I suppose I’m somewhat less manly, comparatively, but yeah, that’s not exactly a fair competition with you in it, ’cause you’ve had a couple more years than me to work on your scruff and muscles and shit—”

“This really isn’t helping,” Derek said.

“— _but_ ,” Stiles continued a little louder, “that’s a seriously shitty-ass foundation for your claim that you’re the wrong kind of person for me. ’Cause maybe I don’t know you all that well, yet, but from what I _do_ know I’m pretty sure that you and I have more in common than me and anyone else out there.”

“I’m not saying I’m no good for you specifically. What I’m saying is that I’m no good for anyone.”

“Eh. Too many negatives in that sentence. Which brings me back to my earlier point— two negatives make a positive.” Stiles’ eyes looked really nice in this light, Derek noticed. “So, in conclusion, you should kiss me.”

Derek frowned. “I’m not sure I’m entirely convinced by your reasoning.”

“So stop thinking and kiss me,” Stiles insisted. One of his hands, which were still resting on Derek’s neck, slid up into his hair and pulled him forward. Derek didn’t resist. As they kissed, he allowed his own hand to wander underneath Stiles’ shirt and stroke the soft skin there until Stiles sigh-moaned into his mouth, squirming in his lap.

“Are you gonna invite me in?” Stiles murmured against the corner of Derek’s lips.

Derek laughed. (Honest-to-god _laughed_. What the hell was this boy doing to him?) “You’re persistent.”

“Is that a no?” Stiles asked, pouting. “Do you need me to convince you?” He rolled his hips again.

Derek had to close his eyes for a second. His dick was straining almost painfully against the inside of his fly. “Stop humping me. We’re in public.”

“Barely,” Stiles said, glancing around the empty alleyway. “And I know at least one way we could fix that tiny little problem.”

“I’m not taking you upstairs.”

“Why not?” Stiles whined.

“Because I’d destroy you,” Derek said, and caught Stiles’ head between his hands and allowed himself to kiss Stiles the way he’d been wanting— hard, passionate, without holding back. His stomach curled. Their teeth clicked together on more than one occasion. Derek’s lips were burning by the time the kiss came to an end.

“My God,” Stiles said after a while, still panting. “Is this supposed to discourage me in some way? ’Cause I can tell you—”

Derek groaned and clamped his hand across Stiles’ mouth.

 

* * *

 

Because the store was closed on Sundays, Laura had long ago implemented a ‘Saturday night = beer night’ rule. “Otherwise my life would just be work, work, work,” she’d said, but Derek knew it was mostly because Laura feared he would turn into a recluse if she didn’t get him out of the house every once in a while. Usually he didn’t mind much— it wasn’t as though he had anyone besides Laura and Erica to go for a drink with. Tonight, though, he wished he hadn’t come. It was hard to keep up with the conversation; his thoughts wouldn’t stop drifting off and he felt restless, skittish. The three or four glasses of beer that had already made it into his system weren’t helping either. If he concentrated hard enough, he could feel his pulse flutter in his throat.

“Derek,” Laura said. She looked exasperated. Derek realized, with a brief stab of pain, that he was more used to her looking exasperated than anything else. “Yeah, what?” he said, rubbing idly at the center of his chest.

“I’m talking to you! What’s on your mind? You’re so distracted tonight.”

Derek shrugged one shoulder. “It’s nothing.” Almost involuntarily he checked his cell phone under the table. Stiles had sent him a message the other day. It’d just been some stupid little joke about one of his teachers (his _high school_ teachers) (as he was in _high school_ ) ( _high school_ ), but still. He’d sent something.

Laura lifted one eyebrow. “Who are you texting?”

“No one.”

Erica gasped. “Is it Stiles?”

“I’m not texting anyone,” Derek said truthfully, but Laura was already leaning in with the kind of glimmer in her eyes that reminded him so much of their mom that it made his grip tighten around his empty glass. He let go before it could crack apart. “Stiles?” Laura said. “Stilinski? Are you hanging out with him?”

“It’s nothing,” Derek said, at the same moment as Erica threw the last inch of her beer down her throat and said, clunking her glass back down on the table, “Oh, they’re _hanging out_ all right.”

“Erica,” Derek warned.

Erica shook her hair across her shoulders. “I’m gonna go get another round. Laura, you better drink up.”

“I will,” Laura said, “as soon as I’ve found out what exactly my little brother has been up to with the sheriff’s son.”

“Oh, are you sure you wanna know those details?” Erica asked as she stalked away in the direction of the bar. Laura’s eyes narrowed.

Derek groaned. “She’s blowing things out of proportion, as usual.” Fucking Erica. He should never have hired her. “I’m not ‘up’ to anything with Stiles, he’s—”

“The sheriff’s son?” Laura interrupted. “Socially troubled? Half orphaned? Several years younger than you? In _high school?_ ”

Somewhere in-between Derek’s lungs something that felt like a little balloon grew to twice its size and popped. It hurt. “Yeah,” he mumbled, touching his midriff. “That, exactly.”

Laura was still narrow-eyed.

“Laura, drop it. Nothing’s going on.”

“But you want there to be,” she said.

It was useless to lie to her. “Yeah,” Derek said wryly. “Jesus. Maybe I do.”

Erica returned to their table with two beers and another glass of red wine for Laura. Derek grabbed his glass and took two long swigs. The tips of his ears were burning.

“So?” Erica said, leaning both her elbows on the table. “Has Derek divulged all his dirty, dirty secrets yet?”

Derek rolled his eyes and said, “Shut up, Erica.”

“That thing the other week,” Laura spoke up suddenly. “That thing at the movie theater people told me about.”

Derek’s chest tightened. He checked his cell phone— no new messages. He put it face-down on the table.

“Did that have something to do with him?”

He took another gulp of beer.

“Derek.”

“There was this kid,” Derek said. “Someone Stiles knew from school, he was being a jerk. Stiles got upset so I stepped in.” He remembered the way Stiles’ body had gone rigid, the way his smile had dried up.

“I heard Stiles is getting bullied at school like, big time,” Erica said. “Or used to be, anyway.”

Derek remembered the way Stiles had looked that afternoon at the store when Derek had startled him, the frenzied look of panic in his eyes. He drove the fingernails of his free hand into his palm and said, “Yeah, well, it’s obvious that he and I wouldn’t be a good match, so let’s drop the subject, yeah?” He drank the rest of his beer in one go.

When he glanced at Laura again, she was biting down on the side of her bottom lip. “I don’t know,” she said slowly, thoughtfully. “You have been different lately.”

“What?”

Laura shrugged. “Small changes, but still. You sleep less. You help out in the store more. You seem slightly more relaxed, easier-going.”

Erica made an exaggerated snorting sound. For once, Derek felt inclined to agree with her. Laura ignored it. “Who knows, Derek. It might be good for you. For you and Stiles both. Maybe you should give it a shot.”

Derek groaned. “Possibly. I don’t know, all right?”

“Derek,” Laura said, again. “At some point you’re going to have to give certain things a shot again. Just let it happen, you know, let the chips fall where they may. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

Derek groaned again and hid his head in his hands.

“Guys,” Erica cut in, “you two do realize this conversation is getting spectacularly boring, right?”

Laura sighed. “Never mind,” she said, pushing to her feet. “I’ll be right back. Bathroom break.”

Derek watched her walk away. His head hurt. He was about to ask Erica if she wanted another beer when suddenly she leaned in and snatched his phone off the table.

“Hey!” Derek reached for her wrist, but Erica leaned back, out of his reach, and started to type away rapidly. “Erica, I swear to fucking God I will wring your fucking neck if you don’t give me my fucking phone right—”

“Jeez, chill out, boss,” Erica said, flipping the phone back down on the table. Derek’s heart sank when he saw the conversation she had opened. His heart shot up into his throat when he saw what she’d texted— _WANNA SEE YOU_. “Erica!”

Erica grinned and got up. “Aw, I’m sorry, Dere-bear, I guess that was mean. I’ll get you another beer to make up for it.”

Before Derek could even think of a damage-controlling text to send, Stiles replied, _I could come over?_

Fuck. He— that—

What?

Fuck.

He shouldn’t. He _couldn’t_. Stiles was nineteen. He was in high school. He was the Sheriff’s kid, goddamnit.

 _sorry erica grabbed my phone_ , Derek sent back. And, separately, _it’s late_.

Again, Stiles’ reply came almost instantly. _I could stay the night_.

An unexpected rush of warmth surged down Derek’s spine at those words. He murmured, “Fuck,” to himself and typed, fingers a little wobbly, _wouldn’t your dad notice?_

A night with Stiles. An entire night with Stiles.

 _I’m 19, Derek_ , Stiles sent back. _I can do what I want. I’ll tell him I’m at Scott’s_.

Derek didn’t know who Scott was. Decided not to care. The thought of Stiles being there when he came home, of sleeping next to him, of waking up to his warm body tomorrow morning— he couldn’t, wouldn’t say no to that. Not right now. He’d worry about the consequences later. _ok_.

_Ok?_

_come over. i’ll be home in 15._

This was a spectacular mistake. It had to be. It felt too good not to be.

 

Stiles was leaning against the front door of the store when Derek arrived home. He was wearing a brown leather jacket Derek had never seen him wear before, hands scrunched into the pockets, collar upturned. It looked good on him.

“Hi,” Derek said, curving his hand around Stiles’ neck to pull him in. Stiles opened up for him smoothly, without a second of surprise or hesitation. Like they were supposed to do this, like they did this all the time. Derek hummed and ran his thumb across the pulse point at the side of Stiles’ throat, continued to do so after they broke apart and Stiles took a half-step back to look Derek in the eye.

“You taste like beer,” Stiles said. He was smiling a little. Derek kissed him again. Stiles tasted like coffee and sugar and warmth. He tasted like Stiles.

Derek said, “You taste nice.”

Stiles raised both eyebrows. “Was that— did you just say something nice to me? Whoa. I could get used to drunk you.”

“I’m not _drunk_ ,” Derek said. “I had, like, six beers. At most.” The meaning of Stiles’ words sank in, and he scowled. “I always say nice things to you.”

“You call me an idiot, like, all the time.”

“That’s because you are an idiot,” Derek said, tracing Stiles’ hairline with his index finger. “Chasing after me. Idiot. You should know better.”

Stiles made a good-natured noise. “Whatever.”

“ _I_ should know better,” Derek mumbled to himself. When he was done with Stiles’ hairline he moved on to the birthmarks on Stiles’ face, touching them one by one.

“Yet here I am.”

“Yeah,” Derek said. “Here you are.” He kissed the hollow of Stiles’ throat. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“Yes please,” Stiles breathed so softly Derek almost didn’t catch it.

 

Derek couldn’t remember the last time anyone – except for Laura and Erica, that was – had stopped by his place. He glanced around his living room after switching on the lights, suddenly worried there might be something to be embarrassed about. There didn’t seem to be, though. If anything, the small apartment looked slightly artificial in all its sparse, organized, IKEA-dependent glory. The only piece of furniture he’d bought since Laura had decorated this place, Derek realized sheepishly, was the god-awful semi-broken hall tree onto which Stiles was now dumping his jacket. Derek followed his lead, shrugged out of his own jacket, his cardigan, let them fall to the ground.

“I like your place,” Stiles said, his eyes gliding from left to right and left again. He was scratching at his wrist. Derek crowded closer, watched the way Stiles’ Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, the way his gaze flickered from Derek’s eyes to his lips to his chest and then back to his eyes. “Nervous?” Derek asked, touching two fingers to the curve of Stiles’ shoulder.

Stiles shuddered. “No,” he said, too fast. “I mean, maybe a little.”

“I can bring you home,” Derek said, pressing a soft kiss to Stiles’ cheekbone. “If you want me to.”

“I don’t,” Stiles said. He was holding very still. “Also, you’ve been drinking. It’s just…” He laughed mildly. “You’re really fucking gorgeous, you know that?”

 _No, you are,_ Derek thought and aligned their mouths again. Stiles sighed, lips parting, allowing Derek to slide their tongues together. Derek’s stomach twisted and trembled at the smooth wetness of it all, at the way Stiles’ pulse fluttered under his fingertips, at the way Stiles was never completely silent or still when they kissed, always sighing, humming, thrumming, making little noises in the back of his throat. It was addictive. Derek wanted to touch him everywhere, with his fingers, with his lips— wanted to find the places that made Stiles moan loudest, to discover the best ways to quiet him, if those even existed, ways to make Stiles’ mouth hang open wet and pink but soundless with sheer pleasure.

Alcohol was nicely blurring Derek’s sense of time and details. They made out against the wall for a long while; by the time he curved his arm around Stiles’ waist to guide him to the couch, Stiles’ mouth area was already flushed red and slightly swollen, his eyes darker and mistier-looking. Derek wasn’t sure when exactly they moved on to third base; one moment he was amazed at and agonizingly turned on by the way Stiles pushed him down into the cushions and authoritatively straddled him, and the next his jeans were open and Stiles’ hand was sliding into his boxers.

“Fuck,” Derek murmured. Both his hands were on Stiles’ lower back, holding him in place; slowly, he slid one down to palm at Stiles’ still-clothed crotch. Stiles closed his eyes, pushed forward into his touch. His grip stuttered around Derek’s dick.

“Fuck,” Stiles agreed. “Fuck.” He leaned forward, out of Derek’s eyesight, forehead pressing into the curve of Derek’s neck and shoulder. A burst of air tickled across Derek’s skin when Stiles said, “Hey, can I blow you now?” His thumb rubbed hungrily across the head of Derek’s dick. It was agonizing. Derek exhaled loudly and tried to keep his hips from twitching upward. “Don’t you think—”

“—we should take this slow, yeah, yeah, you’ve said that before,” Stiles said with an eye-roll. (Had he? Derek didn’t remember.) “But dicks themselves are nothing new, I mean, when you think about it it’s not like I’ve never given a handjob before. Actually, if you take into consideration the years of daily practice I’ve had I should kind of be a pro at it already. The only difference here is that I’m touching your dick instead of my own.”

“Fuck,” Derek said. The thought of Stiles jerking off was too much for him to handle at this moment. He pressed a hasty kiss to the slick corner of Stiles’ lips. “You’re gonna have to do that in front of me one day.”

Stiles smiled wickedly. “If you want,” he said, lightly tracing his nails down the length of Derek’s dick. Derek squeezed his eyes shut for a second. With a chuckle, Stiles got up and reached down his jeans to readjust his own junk before sliding down, getting comfortable on his knees between Derek’s legs. He rubbed a hand through his hair – the hand that had been on Derek’s dick, Derek realized, heat pooling at the base of his spine – and flattened the other one against Derek’s still-clothed thigh. “So, can I?”

There was no way in hell Derek had enough willpower to say no to this. He nodded. Stiles’ hand closed around his dick again, its clammy warmth sending tingles up Derek’s spine.

“Okay, so this is the first time I’m doing this, obviously, as you know,” Stiles said, eyelashes fluttering as he glanced up. “Can you kind of— talk me through it?”

“Rub your face against it,” Derek suggested.

Stiles gave him a death glare. “Seriously, Derek? Seriously?”

Derek laughed, but then Stiles’ mouth closed around his dick and the warm wet heat caused his throat to close up. He let his head fall backwards and blinked dumbly at the ceiling until he realized what a waste it was not to be looking at Stiles. _Idiot_ , he scolded himself, straining his neck to watch Stiles cautiously move downward until his lips touched the side of his index finger. His brow was creased into a concentrated frown. As he pulled back to suck carefully on the head of Derek’s dick, Stiles’ eyes flickered up to meet Derek’s, and Derek moaned at that, at Stiles’ expression, so focused yet playful at the same time. He dug his fingernails into the couch cushion.

Stiles pulled off. A thread of spit stretched from his bottom lip to the tip of Derek’s dick. “Tell me what to do?” he said, the thread breaking.

Derek reached out and rubbed his thumb across Stiles’ slack, wet bottom lip. “This is good,” he said. “Just… do whatever. A-anything is good.” His voice sounded rough. Stiles half-smiled and lowered his head again to lick at Derek’s dick, flat strokes across the head and then swirling motions down the length until his nose was pressing against Derek’s pubic hair. He lingered there. A flashback to one of his jerk-off fantasies overcame Derek—holding Stiles’ head in place with both hands, fucking hard into his mouth until come was shooting down his throat—and he closed his eyes, clenching his hands into fists and unclenching them again. “Keep going.”

“Like this?” Stiles said, licking at the tip and sucking it into his mouth again.

“Yeah, like that— fuck, Stiles. Just like that.”

Stiles’ flushed cheeks hollowed. Derek’s lower body was tingling. His hips wanted to snap forward, pursue the pleasure, but he couldn’t do that, shouldn’t do that. He curved one hand around Stiles’ neck. Stiles blinked up at him, curious.

“I won’t,” Derek said, panted almost. Jesus. “I wouldn’t. Just— just holding—”

Stiles pulled back enough to say, “You can,” the slick head of Derek’s dick bumping against his chin as he spoke. “Just not too much.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Derek said. He pressed down a little, just a little, only because Stiles said he could. Stiles’ eyes slid half-shut and this time he moaned around Derek’s dick, sending such intense tingles through Derek’s entire body that his back arched away from the couch.

“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek murmured and guided Stiles’ head further down, eliciting another one of those moans that seemed to reverberate through his entire nervous system. He brushed his thumb across Stiles’ stretched cheek to feel the hardness of his own dick in there. Stiles moaned again. “Fuck. _Look_ at you.”

Stiles hummed deeply. Derek moved his hand to Stiles’ hair. It was getting longer, the ends soft and pliable instead of short and bristly-looking like they used to be. Derek uncurled his other fist, fingers cramping, and ran both hands through Stiles’ hair. Stiles had his eyes closed now. The wet heat of his mouth was becoming too much; Derek could feel his orgasm building, could hear his own breathing quicken in the quiet of his living room. The only other sounds audible were the wet sounds Stiles was making around his dick, which, _fuck_. This one was going to be the death of him.

Derek continued to stroke Stiles’ hair and murmur encouragements and little nothings until he was so close that he _had_ to pull him off. Even then, Stiles didn’t move away fully but stayed on his knees, an expectant look on his face. Derek kept one hand curved around Stiles’ jaw and used the other one to finish himself off, one two three hard strokes until he was spurting on Stiles’ cheek and down the side of his neck with a deep, “Fuck, _Stiles_.” He sagged back into the couch cushions.

Stiles leaned his head against the inside of Derek’s knee. The side of his face was glistening with come— with _Derek’s_ come. Fuck.

“You all right?” Derek asked. His voice sounded so rough, Jesus. This one.

Stiles’ eyes flickered up to meet his. “I think I just jizzed my pants,” he said, almost shyly. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I did.”

Derek barked out a laugh. “For real?”

Stiles nodded. “I was just kind of rubbing myself and then—”

“Come up here.”

Stiles scrambled into Derek’s lap. The crotch of his jeans was stained dark. He was _unreal_. Derek pulled him in for a kiss, fingers sliding through the wetness on Stiles’ neck. Stiles chuckled lowly into his mouth.

 

* * *

 

When Derek woke up the next morning, Stiles was gone.

Derek – sick with the realization, still dizzy with sleep – sat up and scratched at his stubble, squinting against the bright light of the sun. He couldn’t remember closing the curtains last night. He remembered washing Stiles’ face, brushing their teeth together, undressing Stiles slowly, one item at a time, savoring his naked body, the way he responded to every brush of Derek’s fingers. He remembered falling into bed in a messy tangle of limbs and skin, kissing, touching, grinning, fumbling at each other’s dicks without it really going anywhere, listening to Stiles talk for a very long time (about school; about lacrosse; about Scott, who was apparently his best friend; about his mom, very briefly; about how he couldn’t wait to start college, but did plan to stay in California because of the weather and also because of his dad), drifting off to a deep and dreamless sleep with Stiles’ head on his chest, their fingers loosely interlinked. He couldn’t remember closing the curtains, or leaving his bedroom door open, or Stiles slipping out of his arms.

Derek scrambled out of bed and went into the living room, heart pounding. The nausea dropped away as soon as he caught sight of Stiles leaning back against the kitchen table, shirtless, a cup cradled between his hands. The room smelled like warmth and fresh coffee. Derek exhaled, swallowed. “Morning,” he said, reaching out to touch Stiles’ naked lower back.

Stiles twisted to the side, the cup dropping from his hands and shattering on the floor. “Oh my God,” he gasped, taking one step backwards. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t— you—”

“Careful,” Derek said, and grabbed Stiles’ upper arms. “Don’t move, you could cut yourself.”

They stared awkwardly at each other, surrounded by a sea of coffee and shards.

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles said again, averting his gaze. “You startled me.”

“No,” Derek said. “I should’ve… I’m sorry.”

Stiles smiled wanly. His hair was a mess; he looked sleepy still.

“So,” Derek said. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” Stiles said. “I hope you don’t mind that I made coffee. You were out cold, so…”

“Yeah.” Derek scratched at the back of his neck. “I sleep a lot.”

“You sleep like a fucking rock,” Stiles said, eyes widening. “I tried to wake you, like, in a million different ways. Cute to watch, sure, but not extremely practical. I mean, what if there were—” He reeled back as much as Derek’s hold would allow, clapping his hand across his mouth.

“A fire?” Derek finished his sentence. Involuntarily he eyed the stove, the oven. “Yeah, it’s a miracle I made it out of that one alive.”

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles said. The color was draining from his cheeks. “Derek, I didn’t— I wasn’t think—”

“It’s all right.” Stiles still looked mortified. Derek touched his face, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m the dumbest person in the entire _world_ ,” Stiles lamented, but he kissed Derek back. Derek could taste the coffee on his tongue. He didn’t even want to know what he, fresh out of bed, tasted like right now. Regretfully he broke away, started mouthing at Stiles’ neck instead. “So,” he said, trying but failing to stifle a smirk. “A million ways to wake me up, huh?”

“You dirty-minded asshole,” Stiles said, pushing Derek’s shoulder.

Derek let his gaze trail down Stiles’ frame. He noticed a patch of skin on his lower abdomen that had a somewhat yellow-bluish hue. “What’s this?” Derek asked, trailing his index finger around the faint discoloration.

Stiles turned away as far as he could without moving his feet. “Just an old bruise. It’s almost gone.”

Derek frowned, remembering the day when Stiles came to visit him at work, during school hours, because he couldn’t participate in P.E. _I got this bruise on my ribs. Makes it hard to run and breathe at the same time._ (That had been the day of their first kiss.) “That’s what you said last time.”

“Well, it’s almost gone now. See?” Stiles grabbed his hand, threaded their fingers together. “They haven’t really bothered me since that night at the movie theater, you know,” he said, quietly.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Just, like, name-calling and stuff, but nothing worse. You must’ve scared him real good.” Stiles was smiling a little. Derek kissed him again, morning breath be damned. “Do you have anywhere to be?”

Stiles shook his head.

“Good, ’cause you’re coming back to bed.” Stiles yelped in surprise when Derek picked him up by the waist, but easily looped his legs around Derek’s middle, his lanky arms around Derek’s neck. “If I’d known you’d be this much fun, I would’ve seduced you long ago,” Stiles said, breathlessly.

 _I don’t know if I’d have been any fun if you hadn’t seduced me_ , Derek thought but didn’t say. Instead, he carried Stiles to his bedroom, deposited him on his back in the middle of the bed, slid Stiles’ jeans off his body and took his dick into his mouth.

“Holy shit, Derek,” Stiles crowed. “Fuck.”

It had been ages since the last time Derek had gone down on someone, and he was surprised to find how much he loved it. Giving head had never struck him as the most appealing thing in the world, but now, with Stiles writhing beneath his touch, with those long-fingered hands sliding loosely across his shoulder blades, twitching against the back of his neck and the side of his face, with the _sounds_ Stiles was making, wouldn’t stop making— it couldn’t last long enough. (Stiles was loud, fucking loud. Derek wasn’t at all surprised.)

After coming in Derek’s mouth, Stiles jerked Derek off, head tipped back in the pillow, smiling lazily. Derek was pretty sure he didn’t last longer than five seconds. He didn’t bother moving afterwards, just dropped down – “Holy _fuck_ , warn a guy,” Stiles panted, arm coming up around Derek’s waist – and nestled his face in the curve of Stiles’ throat. He could feel his come setting between their stomachs but he didn’t care. For the first time in what seemed like years, he felt relaxed, content.

“Are you asleep?” Stiles spoke up after a while. He was drawing on Derek’s back, idly, as though he wasn’t aware of doing it. He probably wasn’t.

Derek shook his head, careful not to move too much.

“Oh, thank God,” Stiles said. “I suddenly had this huge panic moment about what would happen if you fell into your weird-ass rock sleep on top of me like this. Like, you’d either suffocate me very very slowly with all your manly muscle weight, or I’d just die of starvation. Whoa, can you imagine? That’s the kind of sensation story that would make the front page of the Beacon Hills Post for sure.”

“We can switch,” Derek mumbled against Stiles’ warm skin.

“Nah, I’m good,” Stiles said. “Besides, I’m pretty sure we’re, like, stuck together.” His chuckle vibrated under Derek’s cheek. “Hey, did you know that’s how Jesus probably died? Given that he existed, of course.”

“What?”

“Asphyxiation,” Stiles explained patiently. “That’s the thing about crucifixion. I mean, of course it’s a shitty thing that will kill you one way or the other, like, infection is also a possibility, or exposure, depending on the environment in which you’re crucified. Or even just ordinary heart failure. But usually people just slowly choked to death.”

“Huh,” Derek said. He’d never really thought about any of this. “How do you know that?”

Stiles’ body shifted under his when Stiles shrugged. “I think I read it somewhere. I thought it was interesting.”

Derek wanted to kiss him. He wanted to wrap his arms around Stiles and never let him go. He wanted them to stay like this forever, just them, nothing else, nothing more. Just two warm naked bodies and a too-big mattress and messy sheets and the sun streaming in through the windows. He sighed and heaved himself into a half-upright position so that he could clasp Stiles’ face between his hands and kiss him deeply, longingly. Stiles hummed, then sighed, then moaned, softly. One of his hands curved around Derek’s biceps and stayed there even after they broke apart.

“What was that for?” he asked, touching Derek’s collarbone.

“Nothing,” Derek said. “C’mon, let’s go get some breakfast.”

“More like lunch,” Stiles pointed out.

“Whatever.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles had been gone for less than half an hour when Derek started feeling sick again. He ate some more, fatty food this time, but the nausea refused to leave. It was lodged in his stomach and around his throat, something more profound than the remnants of a hangover. He put on his running clothes and went for an hour-long run.

After showering he checked his phone. No new messages. His throat hurt. There were three missed calls from Laura. He called her back, downing a glass of water, swallowing a few times.

“Please tell me you have so much to tell me that I have to come over and sit on your couch and drink tea and go ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ every five seconds,” Laura said, by way of greeting.

Derek exhaled, allowed himself a smile. “Hi, Laura.”

“Well?” she pressed.

He leaned against the window sill and looked down at the quiet street. “He stayed over. We talked a lot.” He paused. “Well, he talked a lot, I guess.”

“And?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “And we did some other things.”

Laura squeed. “I knew it!”

“Are you sure you should be endorsing this?” Derek scratched at a small paint stain on the window sill. His stomach dipped, randomly, at the memory of last night.

“Why not?” Laura said. “Like I said yesterday, I think it could be good for you. I mean, Dr. Morell said—”

“Like you also said yesterday,” Derek interrupted, “he’s the son of the sheriff, he’s got issues, and he’s in _high school_.”

“Only for a few more months. Besides, he’s legal, isn’t he?” Laura pointed out. “And everyone’s got issues. All people are messed up, Dere— some slightly more than others. Hell, we know that better than anyone. Since when should it be a reason not to get involved with other people?”

Derek tilted his head back, rolled his shoulders. “But still,” he said, hesitantly.

“But _what?_ What are you afraid of?”

 _I don’t know_ , Derek thought. _Everything._ He closed his eyes for a second. “So I’ve got your blessing?”

Laura laughed. “Every social interaction of yours’s got my blessing, little brother.”

“Hey,” Derek said, scowling. “I’m not _that_ bad.”

“Sure, sure. See you tomorrow, bro. I’ll need details!”

 

* * *

 

Derek was expecting the sheriff’s cruiser to steer onto the curb a little before eight AM. He refused to admit it to Laura, of course, but he was starting to get anxious when it was five past and the car still hadn’t arrived. “Idiot,” he whispered to himself, wiping the countertop with a wet cloth. He looked out of the window again; the cruiser still wasn’t there.

When he looked back, Stiles was standing on the other side of the counter, hands in the pockets of the same brown leather jacket he’d been wearing on Saturday night.

“Whoa,” Derek said, dumbly. “Hi.” His stomach swooped.

Stiles smiled, eyes crinkling up. “Hi.”

“I was, um, expecting your dad’s car,” Derek said, gesturing vaguely in the direction the window. Laura sniggered behind him. He could feel his face flush with heat.

Stiles smiled again, wider this time, and ducked his head. “Yeah, he got called into work early, so. It’s just me today.”

“No sheriff’s breakfast, then?”

“Just a coffee to go.”

“What kind of coffee?” Derek asked automatically.

“Surprise me,” Stiles said, grinning, glancing up through his eyelashes. Fuck. Derek scanned the store to make sure no one else had come in while he was so uncharacteristically lost in thought. When it turned out they were indeed the only people around (aside of Laura, but there was nothing to be done about that), he leaned across the counter, grabbed the collar of Stiles’ jacket with one hand and pulled him in for a kiss. Stiles mumbled something inaudible and kissed him back, tongue flicking across Derek’s bottom lip. Derek could hear his own breathing stutter.

“I’ll make the coffee,” Laura said loudly from somewhere behind him. Derek grinned against Stiles’ lips and turned his head away. “Meet me around the back in a few minutes?” he whispered, brushing his thumb across Stiles’ cheekbone.

Stiles nodded, eyes bright.

“Here’s your coffee, Stiles,” Laura said, nudging Derek out of the way. Stiles smiled. “Thanks, Laura. See you tomorrow.” His gaze locked with Derek’s, but he didn’t say anything else, just blinked those stupidly large brown eyes, grabbed the cup off the countertop and left.

As soon as the door had fallen shut behind him, Derek threw down his dishtowel. “I’m gonna go do some stuff in the kitchen.”

“That’s the flimsiest cover-up I have ever heard in my life,” Laura said, shaking her head. “It’s like you’re not even trying.”

“Whatever, Laura.” Derek grabbed some of the sliced turkey breast off one of the breakfast trays.

“Oh, and don’t think I don’t know about that cat,” Laura yelled after him.

 

They sat on the bottom step of the fire escape and watched the cat eat the slices of turkey breast Stiles had torn into small pieces for her. Derek couldn’t help but think of that sun-drenched afternoon a few weeks ago, when they’d sat right here, talked about random things like double negatives, made out for the first time. He hid his smile behind his hand.

“So, have you given her a name yet?” Stiles asked.

Derek side-eyed him. “What did I tell you about that?”

“C’mon, man, don’t be a dick,” Stiles said, bumping their shoulders together. “You’ve been feeding her for months, you might as well adopt her. I know you want to.”

“No I don’t,” Derek said and scratched the cat behind her ears. She purred, pushed her little head up into his palm.

Stiles sighed and murmured “Idiot,” under his breath, just loud enough for Derek to hear. He took Derek’s free hand, rubbed his thumb across its top. “What was your mother’s name?” he said suddenly, hesitantly.

Derek felt his stomach dip, but not in an altogether bad way. “Talia,” he said. The name felt foreign on his tongue. It was nice to hear it out loud again, though.

“That’s a nice name.”

“Yeah,” Derek agreed softly.

Stiles squeezed Derek’s hand and then pushed himself to his feet, grabbing his paper cup off the ground. “Hey, I gotta get to school. I’m already late, I think. See you later?” He sounded hopeful. Derek’s heart leaped concurrently.

“But you usually don’t come by on Monday afternoons,” he said.

Stiles grinned. “Yeah, well,” he said. “I’m willing to make exceptions. For certain people.” He stooped down, tenderly curved his free hand around the back of Derek’s neck. Derek leaned up into his touch. They kissed, Stiles’ teeth catching slightly on Derek’s bottom lip toward the end. “See you,” Stiles said again, quietly, and let go.

“Yeah,” Derek said. He watched Stiles leave the alley, sighed. Part of him (a very big part of him) wanted to run after Stiles, push him against the brick wall, kiss him properly, endlessly. Never let go again. Instead, he stayed where he was and petted the cat— Talia. She was still purring. “Well then,” Derek murmured to her, biting back another smile. “Guess that means I’m stuck with you both.”

**Author's Note:**

> WHAT EVEN IS PACING.
> 
> I hope this was an enjoyable read. Comments make my day. Also, please come hang out with me [on Tumblr](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com).


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